


It's All Fine

by Caseyrocksmore



Series: A Great Man (Maybe Even a Good One) [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Nakedness, Slice of Life, Trans Male Character, Trans Sherlock, Vulnerability
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-19
Updated: 2016-04-19
Packaged: 2018-06-03 07:20:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6601900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caseyrocksmore/pseuds/Caseyrocksmore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A trip to the sewer leaves John and Sherlock in desperate need of a shower. An intimate moment leads to a frank discussion about sex, their future, and consent. </p><p>Third in my series "A Great Man (Maybe Even a Good One)"; might not make too much sense without having read the other two. Takes place after "Nothing Wrong With Me."</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's All Fine

**Author's Note:**

> This work is unbeta'd, so all faults are my own. If you see any glaring errors, feel free to point them out in the comments and I will do my best to fix them.

They smelled positively rotten.

Trudging through the sewers will do that to a person. They had spent nearly four hours in the underground tunnels, slipping and sliding on algae, refuse, and human waste. Their shoes were beyond saving, and probably their trousers too. Luckily Sherlock had had the forethought to tell John to wear clothes he wasn’t attached to, suspecting this outcome early that morning.

“Barry? Barry, call out! Barry Elliot?” John bellowed the victim’s name until his voice was hoarse, calling down dark, dark passageways under the familiar streets of London, his face briefly illuminated under shafts of streetlight when they passed under manhole covers. Sherlock had no illusions about what they were really looking for. They were too late.

When the smell became unbearable, John pulled his sweatshirt up over his nose.

“Jesus, what is that?” he asked, nearly gagging. Even for two men who had been wading through shit for hours, the smell was pungent. “Oh no.” A look of horror passed over his eyes, visible above the sweatshirt’s hem.

“Yes, John,” Sherlock huffed. “Decomposition.”

“Could be an animal,” John offered hopefully, but his eyes were stinging. The smell was too strong to be any animal small enough to have ended up in the London sewer system.

Sherlock turned a sharp corner and stepped up onto a dry ledge, offering John his hand. Then he turned his flashlight to an object in the gloom. The body was ghastly. Swollen with intestinal gasses, it sagged over the restraints holding it to a wooden kitchen chair.

He had been dead for longer than they’d been on the case; that much was clear.

Sherlock approached the body, his shoes squelching wetly on the paved ledge.

“You knew he was dead?” John asked. Of course Sherlock knew.

“I suspected. But treating this as a kidnapping provided us with more resources from Scotland Yard.”

John could not understand how Sherlock could stand to be so close to the stinking, hulking mass of flesh that had once been a vibrant sixteen-year-old boy. He held the torch between his teeth and pulled a magnifying glass from the pocket of his jacket, leaning in close to examine Barry’s head.

“Cause of death appears to be blunt force trauma to the skull. Autopsy will confirm. The blow was meant to incapacitate, but the boy never regained consciousness. Without proof of life, they had to change their plan.”

“That’s why they waited so long to demand a ransom.”

The boy had been missing two days before the ransom note was placed in the Elliots’ mailbox. If the kidnappers had made a phone call, the Elliots would have demanded to hear their son’s voice as proof of life.

Sherlock placed the call to Scotland Yard, informing them of the development in the case. He had, of course, already discerned the identity of the kidnappers— it was a matter now of waiting for one of them to use a credit card, or Barry’s, or else try to leave the country.

The unidentifiable ooze through which they had been trudging sucked at John’s sneakers when he pulled them out, as if trying to keep him there forever. They ascended the rungs of a ladder to the nearest manhole cover and indicated the location of the body to the officers who arrived on scene.

None of the cabs they flagged down would take them after seeing their dripping clothes. And they did smell positively rotten. Consequently, it took them nearly an hour to get home, walking together in silence. John wondered if he should be holding Sherlock’s hand.

In the weeks since that heart-stopping moment at the crime scene John had named “Concrete Shoes” in his blog post on the case, nothing had changed. Their frantic public display of affection hadn’t made the final cut into the story, of course, but even a causal reader could discern something pivotal had happened in that dirty alleyway, especially if they read the comments. Lestrade’s comment of, “Leaving something out, lovebirds?” and of course Molly’s misguided “Congratulations!!” followed by a long string of emojis quite clearly indicated that something had changed.

But nothing had changed.

They didn’t hold hands or have dinner dates, they didn’t sleep in the same bed. They had kissed a few times—infrequently, and at odd moments, Sherlock would seemingly remember that they had agreed to give ‘this thing’ a shot, and would startle John with a quick peck as he ran out the door, or, once, a long, slow kiss before he stumbled off to bed.

So John had not expected anything to change when they arrived home, tired, sore, and covered in unmentionable fluids. He had expected that Sherlock would claim the bathroom, use up all the hot water, and leave John to attempt to wash up in the kitchen sink.

“We need to shower immediately,” Sherlock said instead. John nodded absently.

“A hot shower sounds heavenly right about now,” he agreed, bending to untie his ruined sneakers.

“Is that all right?”

“Is what all right?” John pried his left foot loose from its shoe, which seemed to have shrunken, before turning his attention to the right one.

“Are you comfortable sharing a shower with me?”

The other foot popped free and John froze, not expecting Sherlock’s answer. Sherlock must have interpreted John’s stunned silence as confusion, as he began to explain a moment later.

“We both clearly need to disinfect ourselves, and since there is only one bathroom, it makes logical sense that we share the facilities in order to get clean as soon as possible. Also I am aware that I often take too long in the shower, which causes you annoyance even when you are not currently in a state of bacterial—”

“Sherlock,” John cut him off, coming to his senses. “It’s fine.”

Sherlock stopped rambling and nodded once, almost curtly. “All right then.” Then he began to perfunctorily remove his clothing, toeing off his shoes and stripping off his shirt while walking toward the bathroom.

John took a moment to follow, feeling like he had missed something somewhere. It was not an uncommon feeling for him when dealing with Sherlock.

Sherlock was already in the shower with the water turned to boiling when John stepped into the bathroom and began to remove his own clothes, somewhat awkwardly. He had showered with other people before, of course, with fellow soldiers in the army and his sexual partners on occasion. But he felt a strange trepidation when he finally shucked his sopping trousers and pants. He had to take a deep breath before he pulled open the shower curtain and stepped into the bathtub behind Sherlock, who was scrubbing at his skin with ferocity.

If John had imagined what showering with Sherlock might be like, which he had not, he could not have predicted Sherlock’s behaviour. He scrubbed at his skin until it was raw, randomly switching to a new spot before returning to clean ones, the inside of his wrist, the left side of his ribcage. It looked like a painful process, rubbing the skin raw under burning hot water. John reached around him to turn the water to a reasonable temperature, still too hot for his own liking, but not scalding. Sherlock’s skin was flushed pink from the heat and blotchy red where he had rubbed at it furiously with his wash cloth. John instinctively knew that he was observing a very private ritual, a moment of vulnerability, as he watched Sherlock clean his body.

“Here,” John said, touching Sherlock’s shoulder gently. Sherlock tensed, as if he had forgotten John was there. “Let me.” He took the soap from Sherlock’s suddenly slack hand and smoothed it across the taller man’s shoulders, washing his back gently but thoroughly. Sherlock stood with the muscles in his back pulled taut, as if standing guard.

John pressed his fingertips to each scar he passed as he washed Sherlock’s back. Some of them he knew— clean lines he had sutured himself, others more jagged and puckered, clearly closed with tape. He cupped his hand around Sherlock’s hipbone and leaned his forehead against the sharp outline of his scapula, breathing deeply for a moment. He was breathless—not due to the steam, or even arousal, but at the sheer _intimacy_ of this moment. It was in no way sexual, nor even sensual, really. Just intimate.

John had never expected to be allowed this kind of moment with Sherlock. Even after their passionate kiss in the alley, he had no illusions about what a relationship with Sherlock might look like. He was a deeply private man, guarded, and frankly, awkward. Others saw these traits as coldness, but John knew it was a method of protecting himself—and here Sherlock was vulnerable to John, to his eyes and to his touch. The trust in allowing this was staggering, and it took his breath away.

“The hot water will run out before you wash yourself if we continue to stand like this,” Sherlock said after a while. John nodded against Sherlock’s back.

“All right, love.”

Sherlock inhaled sharply, but said nothing as John stepped around him to be better in the stream of water. The brush of skin against skin was unavoidable in the small bath, but there was nothing sexual about the touch of their bodies—only that same sense of intimate trust. John began his own washing routine, which was thorough but efficient, as Sherlock shampooed his thick curls, neither looking too closely at the other.

When John had rinsed all the suds from his body, he lingered under the hot water with his eyes closed. He felt Sherlock come up behind him to rinse the shampoo from his hair but did not turn to look at him as his flatmate pressed his torso to John’s back in order to get under the flow of water to rinse his hair.

The water ran clear and Sherlock inched back so they were no longer touching.

“You done washing?” John asked. “Best not to waste water.” It was running cooler now anyway, barely lukewarm.

Sherlock hummed softly, which John took as a yes. He reached out blindly and turned off the shower. He stood still a moment longer, dripping, breathing in the last of the steam.

“Are you all right, John?” Sherlock asked, and John opened his eyes.

He took a deep breath and turned to face Sherlock, looking up into his face with determination. “I am. Are you?”

“I believe so.”

John nodded, feeling relieved and somewhat tongue-tied.

“You’re allowed to look at me,” Sherlock said. “You must be curious.”

John shook his head. “Not particularly.”

Sherlock’s brow furrowed slightly, clearly surprised by John’s answer. “I was hoping that the first time you saw me naked would be nonsexual, to avoid spoiling an intimate moment with...”

“Sherlock, it’s fine. Really.” John shrugged his good shoulder. “I’ll look if you want me to.”

“I figure it’s best to get it out of the way, when neither of us is aroused,” Sherlock continued. Then he paused, and glanced down at John’s penis, as if to confirm that John was, in fact, unaroused. John thought maybe Sherlock was blushing when he looked away, but the flush in his cheeks could have been from the hot water, still.

“Well sewers and dead bodies don’t tend to be particularly arousing, so you certainly chose a good time,” John said, the edge of a laugh in his voice. Then, meeting Sherlock’s eyes first, he let his gaze drift over Sherlock’s body. John’s eyes wandered over his flatmate’s broad shoulders that angled triangularly to a narrow waist, the twin scars from his double mastectomy, the thin ribs, the protruding hipbones and high iliac crest, and finally, the thatch of dark curls that dipped between his thighs.

“You’re not disgusted by me?” Sherlock asked. His voice was smaller than John had ever heard it.

“Not a bit.” John extended his hands slowly, giving Sherlock plenty of time to move away before they made contact with his ribs. “I knew what to expect. And even if I hadn’t—Sherlock, there’s nothing wrong with you. Can I give you a hug?”

Sherlock nodded quickly, and John took a step forward to wrap his arms tightly around Sherlock’s middle. Their height difference made the position a bit awkward, but John simple held him securely for a long moment, not caring at all that his face was pressed against Sherlock’s breastbone.

Sherlock cleared his throat, and John stepped back, careful not to slip in the tub. “We should get dressed.”

“And eat something,” John reminded him, pulling back the shower curtain and stepping out onto the bathmat. He grabbed both of their towels from the rack and handed Sherlock’s to him. “And either trash our clothes or throw them in for a wash. The smell is ghastly.”

Sherlock smiled as he dried himself. John was very good at this part, at knowing how and when do the things that real people took for granted. He had become an essential part of Sherlock’s routine, of Sherlock’s life.

When they had dressed in their sleep clothes and thrown whatever was salvageable into the washer in the basement, John boiled some pasta for a late dinner. He put it all on one plate and dusted it with parmesan cheese—a little plain for his taste, but the way Sherlock liked it—and brought it with two forks to the sofa.

John ate slowly while Sherlock watched him from beside the window. Eventually, Sherlock migrated from the window to the sofa and began to eat off John’s plate, exactly as John thought he would. He even used the second fork, as opposed to his fingers, as he sometimes did.

“I have some questions,” John said at length, when most of the pasta had disappeared between Sherlock’s lips.

Sherlock nodded gravely. “As I said before, I will answer any questions you have.”

“Right. Yeah.” John rubbed the back of his neck. “You said in the shower that you wanted the first time I saw you naked to be nonsexual.” Sherlock inclined his head to acknowledge John’s statement as the truth. “Does that mean you anticipate there being situations where you… might want me to see you naked, sexually?”

The question made more sense in John’s head than it did coming out of his mouth, but all the same, Sherlock seemed to understand.

“I am attracted to you, John, sexually as well as romantically. At least, I believe I am.” Sherlock paused, choosing his words so carefully. “So I do not _anticipate_ so much as… hope, that if you are amiable, we might pursue some kind of relationship.”

“A relationship that includes sex, of some kind.”

Although more of a statement than a question, Sherlock nevertheless responded to John’s words with a breathless, “Yes.”

“Okay, that’s good.” John smiled softly. “I would like that, too. Very much. Which leads me to my next question. Before we find ourselves in that situation, is there anything I shouldn’t do or say…?”

Sherlock’s brow furrowed again. “What do you mean?” he asked.

“I’ve been doing some reading, about trans men—”

“Oh, how _boring_.” Sherlock dramatically collapsed backward onto the arm of the sofa. “There is no universal ‘transgender experience,’ John. I am atypical even among those who share the same experience of transitioning.”

John put his hands up, as if in self-defence. “I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant, some people are uncomfortable being touched a certain way, or having their genitalia talked about in certain terms. I just want to know if there’s anything that might cause you dysphoria, so I can… not do that.” He sighed and ran one hand through his hair. “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable, Sherlock. That’s all.”

Sherlock felt a sudden rush of _something_ at John’s words. Not like an adrenaline rush, but some chemical process in the brain that was similar—and lovely. He instinctively reached for John and pulled him in for a kiss, which John enthusiastically responded to.

“There is nothing you could do to make me uncomfortable,” he said as he pulled back, tipping his head so that his forehead leaned against John’s.

“Even so, if I do—if it’s unexpected, but you ever feel—you’ll say something, right? Say something and I’ll stop what I’m doing, whenever. I promise.”

Sherlock closed his eyes, savouring the honesty in John’s voice, the tenderness. His heart was beating rapidly against his breastbone as he leaned in to kiss John again, barely daring to breathe lest he spoil it. This time John broke their kiss, bumping their noses together softly after pulling back.

“I want you to tell me you’ll say something. If you don’t like what I’m doing.”

“I will say something,” Sherlock parroted back at him, a grin spreading across his face.

“Promise?”

“I promise. Now can we go back to the kissing?”

John laughed and then caught Sherlock’s lips with his own, sucking Sherlock’s bottom lip between his teeth to nip at it sharply. “Git,” he said against Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock swept his tongue over his sensitive lip and then kissed John again, and again, and again. He felt safe and warm with John’s hand cupping his jaw, John’s breath in his lungs, John’s mouth on his mouth. It was better than fine, it was extraordinary.


End file.
